


Guess who's coming to dinner

by Mycroftpedia



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fatherhood, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Idiots in Love, Lothbroks in love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of past Ragnar/Lagertha, Modern Era, NO DEATHS, No Angst, No Blood, Parenthood, We deserve that, What Have I Done, a lot of fluff, a lots of love, also Ivar is so done, and soft, even Ivar yeah, first I love you, just fluff, no hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 12:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycroftpedia/pseuds/Mycroftpedia
Summary: Ivar and Alfred, after months of dating, decide that it's time to let their parents finally meet.Ragnar prepares himself for the evening, unwillingly; he totally ignores that, from there to a few hours, his whole life will be change by the arrival of a certain christian.





	Guess who's coming to dinner

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a fan of angst, but I've suffer to much with Ragnar and Athelstan, so I needed some fluff.  
> And Ivar/Alfred bc HELL YEAH, they were cute.

If there was one thing that Ivar hated – well, one of the many, at least – it was the idea of being weak, frightened or agitated about something. He was an arrogant and incredibly proud boy, one of those who prefer to be hated or, even better, fear rather than pity. On the other hand, however, it was very difficult to hide something, especially on the emotional field, to Alfred: that silly boy would drive him crazy, sooner or later, except he already was, according to many.

He had known him for less than a year and he still remembered every detail of their first meeting, almost perfectly: it was only the fifth day of his last university year, he had come out rather battered (a swollen eye, a bleeding lip and probably a broken nose) from a fight that he himself started and from which he had emerged victorious (for what it was worth) and now he was outside the principal's office waiting to be received.

It was not the first episode of the genre, over the years, he had combined even worse, but his average was high and his father was rich and famous, so no one had ever dared to drive him out once and for all. 

After twenty minutes of waiting, the door of the office had finally opened, Ivar had raised his head in that direction, then leaning it against the wall behind him; from the room came out this teeny-tiny boy, apparently disoriented and out of place, who after a few steps had immediately noticed his presence, stopping suddenly. They looked into each other's eyes for endless moments, and just as Ivar started to open his mouth and tell him to piss off and stop staring at him, the boy pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to him without saying a word, before going away as if nothing had happened.

Ivar was absolutely not a boy who was easily to impress, but that gesture kept him awake all night – that gesture and the pain for the broken nose, if we want to specify.

Another handful of days passed, Ivar was in the yard, under a tree, eating his lunch and tearing up the letter – seriously, there was still someone who wrote letters instead of using email in the twenty-first century?! – that his brother Ubbe had written to say he was embittered by his behavior.

While swallowing the last piece of his sandwich, his attention was captured by a group of boys who had approached the long-haired boy from the principal's office. Without thinking twice and without having the slightest control over his legs, he stood up and reached the bullies in no time, but showing himself apparently calm, almost bored.

In a moment, he had positioned himself between the boy and what seemed to be the leader of the group, and now he was looking at him with a wry and scary smile on his face. He invited the boys to leave, at first, then he started to hit all of them and after having brutally landed all of the five guys, he approached the boy (who discovered, later, he was only in his first year), put an arm around his shoulders and then turned back to the others.

“I would like if you – what's your name?”

“Alfred” he said in a whisper, dazed, more than frightened.

“Alfred. I would like all of you to leave the little Alfred in peace. He's under my protection, the protection of Ivar Lothbrok, from now on.”

Needless to say, no one bothered Alfred in the year that followed, and the two of them became inseparable, no matter how different they were. How the feeling started, or when, among them, it was hard to say, but one day Ivar found himself outside Alfred's classroom at the end of a lesson, kissing him as soon as he was out and without giving him either the time to say hello, or tell him one word.

They were together from that moment, and now, when the school year was over and they both returned to their respective houses, they had the brilliant idea – or rather, Alfred had it – to let their parents know each other. Two hours from the dreaded dinner, Ivar began to show the first symptoms of an imminent nervous breakdown, he would never have to go along with that stupid idea.

“Do you think that dinner will turn out to be a disaster?” At a certain point he heard Alfred asking the question, as he finished reading the last chapter of a novel that had him kept busy for weeks; He was about to join him in his own bed.

Ivar allowed himself to be hugged gently and waited to feel the boy's soft lips pressed against his neck, before reiterating. “What do you think?” He asked with what was supposed to be a sarcastic laugh but that sounded more hysterical and nervous.

“Our parents love us, each in his own way. They would do anything to see us happy and I'm sure they will find a way to get along, for us” he declared with a certainty that almost made his skin crawl.

“You're so sentimental” the other hissed, putting on a disgusted expression.

“And you love me for this.”

“ _In spite_ of this.” Alfred didn't mind, pressing himself against him, letting the other wrap him tight, before meeting their lips in a slow and delicate kiss. “Let's cancel everything, let's go out for dinner, just us. Or at the cinema. At the theatre. I'll take you wherever you want.” Ivar tried again, at one point, his eyes closed and the words whispered against his mouth.

“I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, tonight, if not at your parents' house, with you and our families gathered,” he said. Ivar sighed “Would you do it for me?”

Low blow. Ivar raised an eyebrow, Alfred played the part of the innocent (who had stopped cheating him, now) then both smiled and for the next hour they didn't think about anything else.

  


*

  


Ragnar had always found difficult to deal with such nights. He had witnessed the marriage of his three eldest sons (Bjorn, Gyda and Ubbe), there had been so many embarrassing dinners with his potential in-law, he had managed to avoid some, especially the first ones, but in the long run his wife had forced him to entertain his guests, feigning interest and sympathy.

The reality was that they bored him, all of them, and he didn't even try to hide it. He wasted no time in hoping that, for once, things could go differently: he had known Alfred and, although he had strangely liking him right away, his excessive good manners, his rigor and his ostentatious Christian faith continued to make him raise his eyes. He dared not imagine his fucking parents, that evening had all the potential to turn out to be the most disastrous and boring dinner ever.

Fortunately, he had asked Sigurd to stock up on beer before leaving, or he wouldn't survive for more than an hour.

“They'll be here in moments,” his wife, Aslaug, exclaimed, popping out of nowhere, wasting no time and glaring at him “Are you not prepared yet?”

“What?!” He reaffirmed, raising his arms and pointing himself from head to toe “I'm dressed, as you can see.”

“It's an important dinner for our son, you can't introduce yourself to our guests in this way so sloppy!”

The so-called _sloppy way_ referred to his tight brownish tshirt, his dark jeans completely torn and the pair of black flip-flops, very comfortable, which he kept at his feet.

Ragnar lowered his eyes, looked at his clothes, then returned to look at his wife with an innocent smile. “What's wrong?” And before she could add anything, he hurried back to serious and lightning her with a single glance. “Listen, I'm not going to enter for the umpteenth time in that stupid pinstripe suit you've pulled out and ironed so carefully. Not for people I'll probably never see again, if I'm lucky.”

Aslaug was determined to not let him win, he understood it immediately, but she didn't have time to open her mouth that the bell rang. She clenched her fists, merely murmuring an icy “You could had shave, at least!” Before rushing to open the door.

He took a moment for himself, to breathe deeply and enjoy those last seconds of serenity, before reaching his wife and welcoming the guests. He greeted Alfred with a pat on the back, giving him a sincere smile, while the latter presented to him his mother Judith, an artist, certainly, inefficient, and his father Aethelwulf, a rich and famous defense lawyer, son of the deceased and great Ecbert, with whom Ragnar himself had repeatedly confronted in court.

His wife began to exchange with them the first pleasantries, and he took the opportunity to take both boys under his arm and get away as quickly as possible. But he was joined by Alfred's father, who had heard his name, from his father first, and from other members of the court, then. He was curious to know him, almost excited to talk to him, too bad that the same thing couldn't be said by Ragnar.

“It's strange that we've never met before, Ragnar. We have been practicing our professions for over twenty years, we are both famous and requested, yet our paths have never crossed. Funny, aren't it?”

Someone tore his tongue out, please! 

It was too much for his tastes, and above all, Ragnar would have preferred to jump off a cliff rather than continue that conversation. He looked at his son and found him of the same warning, but then he looked at Alfred and told himself to try to be nice, at least for that evening.

“So –” he began ignoring as _kindly_ as possible the boy's father, turning to Aslaug, attracting his attention and looking at her, for the first time in years, with hopeful eyes “let's started dinner?”

The woman started to answer, but Judith immediately stepped forward to her place. “We aren't at complete, yet, actually. Athelstan is on his way.”

“Who –?!” Ragnar didn't even have time to finish the question, that immediately the doorbell rang again. Great, other relatives! If he had known before, he would have asked Rollo to join them, at least he would have a drinking buddy.

He listlessly went to the door, barely seeing the glare that Aethelwulf had just addressed to his wife, without asking too many questions about it - he was no interested, honestly.

Hand on the handle, he opened the door, finding himself in front of this _famous_ Athelstan who, evidently lost in his thought, just jumped on the spot before scrutinizing Ragnar from top to bottom, seemed not to lose even a detail.

“Um, hi,” said the little man with disheveled hair in various curls and clothes no doubt more elegant than his, starting to feel slightly threatened by the vague gaze that the other was addressing to him “is it Lothbrok's house?”

The man smiled amused by those awkward ways. “It was the last time I checked.”

“Oh, good,” he exclaimed; Ragnar stared at him without batting an eyelid, straight in the blue eyes, passing his tongue on his lips without thinking. Athelstan felt himself blushing, uncomfortable. This did nothing but increase the smile of the other man.

“Dad!” The eye contact was interrupted by the appearance of Alfred, who quickly hugged the man who returned his enthusiastic smile, feeling as if was rescued.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow, still leaning an arm against the door. He had lost the thread, but he didn't suffer too much: suddenly things had become interesting. He looked quickly at the newcomer, then at Judith who had gone after his son, and finally at Aethelwulf, who had remained aloof, the attention paid to the photos of the Lothbrok family hanging here and there in the living room.

“Dad?” He asked rhetorically, looking back at the man still outside the door.

“Ragnar, I introduce you to my father, Athelstan” Alfred did the honors, excited “Dad, he is Ragnar, Ivar's father.”

“Obviously” Athelstan stretched his right hand towards him, Ragnar watched it for about a half second, before shaking it “Alfred told me so much about you!”

“Funny,” the other said in response “because everyone here were behaving as if you didn't exist at all until a moment ago.” Athelstan frowned, shrugging defensively. Seen this way it seemed even smaller, of stature, than he really was. 2You brought the wine, I see, good!” Ragnar exclaimed, then, taking the bottle from his hands and taking him by the arm, to let him enter the house.

He let him go immediately, as he walked away to the kitchen to uncork the bottle, but without losing sight of the situation in the hallway: Judith had stepped forward to greet him timidly, Aslaug went to introduce himself and Aethelwulf approached Alfred, before hugging his wife as if to mark the territory. Athelstan seemed to receive the blow and fell silent immediately after greeting Ivar, who then reached his father in the kitchen.

“You never told me about Athelstan” Ragnar now looked at his son, trying to interpret his gaze and read his thoughts. He seemed to have still lost some pieces on the way, but it didn't really matter to him.

“I don't like that man.”

“Really?”

“He is a protestant minister, he is loved by everyone in the city. And every time he sees me he doesn't miss the chance to invite me to Sunday Mass!” He exclaimed, annoyed. Ragnar laughed.

“Oh, really?!” He returned to observe Athelstan just as he turned to look at him and, having been caught in full, blushed and turned his attention once again to Alfred.

Probably that evening wouldn't have turned out to be a complete disaster, after all.

  


*

  


Ragnar had prevented his wife from sitting next to him, blocking her before she could even move the chair, and pointing to the empty seat right at Athelstan, who came forward confused.

The table was filled with food and, at least for a while, the only rumors that could be heard came from the voices of Aslaug and Judith: the two of them didn't take care to also include the husbands (or former lovers) in their speeches, the same couldn't be said of the two young men who sooner or later were filled with the most disparate questions. Men enjoyed those moments of peace, in silence, attention paid to their dishes; only Ragnar kept on keeping everyone under control, especially the shy minister at his side.

“And tell me, Ivar, will you follow your father's footsteps and become a judge?” Aethelwulf suddenly intervened in the speeches. Ragnar looked at his son with a smirk, already knowing the answer.

“No, I will become a professional boxer. I want to succeed in the only thing my father has failed.” Ragnar laughed and patted his head, before looking at Aethelwulf's puzzled face, and at the disgruntled look he turned to his son.

“How did a boxer become a judge?” Everyone turned to look at Athelstan, it was the first time he had opened his mouth. Ragnar looked at him carefully, before answering him; the other seemed genuinely impressed and curious.

“At the birth of my son Bjorn I had to pretend to settle down. I had studied law, I don't even remember why, but I had no intention of becoming a lawyer and found myself defending criminals or accusing innocents.” He didn't deign to observe Aethelwulf's reaction to his words, even though he heard Aslaug coughing indignant, but didn't care.

“It was a kind of fallback, then. An obligatory choice.”

“I never dreamed of becoming what I am, if that's what you ask, no. And what about you? Have you already dreamed of telling stories to a crowd of sinners who love to believe of being saints and believe that once dead they will end up in an enchanted place where everyone is happy, when you were a child?”

Ivar laughed, Alfred lightly nudged him; Aslaug hid her face with one hand, Judith held her breath and her husband forgot to shut his mouth for about thirty seconds; Ragnar waited for an answer, but Athelstan lowered his head to hide an amused smile.

“I have an atheist in front of me, I suppose. Well, Ragnar, I will tell you that, no, I received the call with the achievement of the age, year plus or year. As a child I wanted to be an explorer.”

Ragnar laughed, bringing a piece of meat directly to his mouth with his hands. Athelstan observed that gesture, without comment.

“Who knows, maybe your Lord have tried to call me too, in the past, only that he must have found me busy. He could try leaving a message on the secretary, so I could call him back.”

Ivar hid his mouth behind his left hand, then noticed Alfred's glare and hurried to shake his hand apologetically, giving him a wink. Athelstan shook his head, not at all offended by the words of the man, or discouraged to find himself facing a lost cause.

“Don't you believe in anything, Ragnar?” He asked, as if challenging him.

“I believe in men,” the man said without batting an eyelid “I believe we are the only authors of our lives; there is no destiny, no design, no road already written. Those are just stories told to ourselves to justify wrong choices.”

“So you think there's nothing after death? Do you believe that the existence of us has not served any purpose once we have reached its end?”

Ragnar seemed to think about it, to weigh up the question he had been asked and to think about the right words for his answer. “I don't think there's a Heaven and even less a Hell, if that's what you ask me. But I still want to hope that there is the possibility of reuniting with the people we loved in this life, being together again.”

Silence had fallen on the table, now, all listening to their dialogue, no one who really dared to interfere or interrupt them. They seemed not to notice, though.

“It seems to me a vision that is a bit sad and poor, yet hopeful and almost ideal: the idea that there is no Hell, but the possibility of reuniting with our loved ones.”

Ragnar smiled sarcastically. “Not everyone is lucky to have all the answers, like you priests.”

It was Athelstan's turn to curl his lips upward, perhaps sadly. “I don't have all the answers, I'm the first one to be full of doubts. Rather, I admire your confidence in what you say.”

The other remained speechless. He stared with a at him half-open mouth for a few seconds, unable to find any way to argue. Athelstan, however, lowered his eyes to the food, feeling naked, perhaps, so suddenly. He knew he had talked too much, had expressed his insecurities in front of a stranger, but almost didn't seem to care, as if it were right.

Judith took the floor after a while, taking advantage of that moment of silence to boast about her son's first year of university. Ragnar and Athelstan didn't exchange words for the rest of the evening, the same thing couldn't be said about their looks.

  


*

  


“It didn't go so bad, last night. See, I was right!” Alfred began, at one point, while choosing a film to watch on Netflix.

Ivar looked up from his cell phone, interrupting the game to Clash Royale, so as to glare at the boy. “Did we live two different evenings?” He asked, blinking, perplexed. “Don't be fooled by my mother's warm tones, she had kept a cold conversation all the time.”

“I've notice,” the other snorted, “but our fathers were getting along.”

“I don't think my father was really interested in Aethelwulf's speeches. Did you notice his face? His words?”

“I was talking about Athelstan.”

Ivar stood watching him as he ran film titles seen at least a dozen times, in silence, the mind to the previous evening. “They only talked a few minutes,” he finally said, “how can you say that?”

Alfred smiled once he found the film he was looking for, pressed play and returned to throw himself on the couch next to him. “Have you ever seen your father being nice to anyone? Or treat him like one of his peers?”

Ivar frowned “My father is kind to you.”

“I don't count” he laughed “I'm the boyfriend of his son!”

  


*

  


Ivar didn't worry too much about those statements, too busy complaining about the usual comedy they were preparing to watch. In the end that speech escaped his mind and he never thought to question his parents, and even less his father, about the dinner that had taken place in their home.

As he saw, it had been a disaster, a group of people who didn't like each other forced to spend several hours together couldn't lead to anything good - but he took care to reiterate that even at Alfred, who was satisfied and optimistic about it. In his opinion, however, the ideal was to limit the number of evenings of the genre, maybe once a year would have been the best thing for everyone.

He pushed those thoughts off his head when he realized he was planning his future with Alfred - when he had become so sentimental, exactly?

It all came back to him, however, when, a few weeks later, he returned home and saw his father coming out of the minister's car. He was perplexed for a while, standing in front of the driveway of their house, watching the man's car leave and his father doing the same thing, chuckling to himself.

When Ragnar crossed his son's eyes, he did nothing but raise a hand in greeting, as if nothing had happened. Ivar raised an eyebrow and barely moved his head, simulating with his mouth a mute: “What?”

The father shrugged “We met and he gave me a ride.”

Ivar didn't ask any more questions and they didn't mention it again.

The second episode of the genre happened about six days later.

His mother was out, his father was in the garage to traffic with his car and he, Sigurd and Hvitserk were in the latter's room to play with the play station. When the doorbell rang, a sort of verbal struggle began to decide who had to go down to open the door; at the end Ivar was the first to give up, just for not to be forced to hear them a second longer.

Opening the door he remained petrified. Athelstan looked at him, almost in the same way, surprised, before giving him a gentle smile.

“Hello Ivar” greeted him radiantly – why should he always be so happy and calm? “I didn't see you yesterday, at mass.”

The young man struggled with all his strength not to put his hands on him. He refused to answer, the mind to the unfortunate son to whom, unfortunately, he was fond of. “Alfred is not here” he informed him, imagining that this was the reason for the visit.

Athelstan seemed embarrassed, his cheeks hardly colored. “Oh no, that's not why I'm here. Your father wanted me to lend him a book, I had commissions to do around here today, so I thought I'd take advantage of it to bring it to him.”

“A book?” Ivar was incredulous, he didn't even know that his father possessed books.

Athelstan nodded his head, then pulled out of the bag he was carrying a volume of, at a glance, 400 pages, to show it to him. The boy looked first at him, then at the book, then the man. He was increasingly disconcerted.

“Is Ragnar at home?” He asked finally.

“No,” the boy answered without thinking, his eyes back to the book.

Not even on purpose, just at that moment Ragnar came out of the garage, coming towards them, a dishcloth to clean his hands.

“I thought I heard voices,” he exclaimed, once he reached them, his eyes to Athelstan.

The man seemed not to be offended by the lie of Ivar, suddenly his face lit up in a new expression to which, however, the boy, couldn't give a name. “I brought you the book!”

“I see, leave it to Ivar, let him offer you something to drink and then join me in the garage, the guys almost destroyed my car yesterday and I'm trying to fix it, we can talk there.”

Athelstan refused the drink, rather he hastened to follow Ragnar, once entrusted the book in the hands of Ivar and ignored his increasingly lost look.

What was happening?

  


*

  


Those kind of episodes began to become at the order of the week, and later, of the day.

His father had introduced Athelstan to his brother and their friends – Ivar was sure that none of them was too enthusiastic about the new arrival, Floki then gave him confirmation when, one evening, he had texting to him “ _What problems afflicting Ragnar, lately_?”

The minister became more and more present in the life of the Lothbroks, presenting himself at their home, with or without an invitation, in the most disparate hours, stopping for lunch or dinner and inviting them in turn. Aslaug used to thank him kindly, but neither she nor her three eldest sons had ever come to his house, Ragnar had, on the contrary, been there several times, accompanied by Ivar (but never without Alfred), on occasion by Bjorn and often and willingly from Gyda (and her family) who, it seemed, adored on that man.

Months later, Aslaug told to her sons that she and Ragnar had decided to take a break and that she would be away for a while. No one seemed too surprised, since it was years since the two had stopped getting along, barely communicating; only Ivar seemed to suspect that Athelstan had something to do with that story.

“Is your father gay?” He found himself asking, one day, to Alfred, leaving the cinema. The boy didn't stop talking about the musical they had just watched, and almost choked with the remaining popcorn he was finishing eating.

“I don't believe so? I mean... I wouldn't be here, in that case” he supposed, coughing - Ivar patted his back without realizing it “How did you get this question?”

“Did you not realize that our parents are spending practically all their free time together? My father goes to court, he goes out and, first of all, he sees Athelstan. Work from home and Athelstan comes to us. Over the weekend they go out together, usually with my father's friends, but it also happened that they were alone. One sunday I followed my father and found him in front of the church doors! When I asked him what he was doing there, he replied that he was waiting for your father to finish his weekly sermon to take him for a ride. Don't you realize what's going on?”

“Our parents get along, so what? I had already pointed this out to you.”

“It's not just this. My mother left home, four days later my father stayed out for the night. Floki told me he saw him leave the pub they were in with your father.”

“Are you telling me that you think your father is gay or you're sure of that?”

“My father is not gay!” He retorted, offended, before retiring “he had several women over the years, even under my mother's eyes, but - but I don't think he is completely indifferent to your father.” Alfred didn't answer, nodding thoughtfully. Ivar rolled his eyes. “What do you think about it?”

The boy looked at him and shrugged “I don't say that it isn't strange, the idea of the two of them together, but if my father, after all these years, is happy with someone, I'm happy too. Does it bother you?”

Alfred knew that Ivar didn't like his father very much because of his christian faith, but it was also true that his religion had not prevented them from dating; he hoped that over time he would learn to love Athelstan too.

“I don't know. I'm pissed off because my mother left home probably for this reason, but at the same time I love my father – don't tell anyone I said this, _ever_ – and I don't think I could be angry with him, not for too long, not even for a reason like that. I'm not a fan of your father, Alfred, you know that, but I've always tried to get along with him, for you, I suppose I can do it for my father too. It would be nice, though, that he would talk to me first.”

He felt himself being taken by the hand, suddenly, he warned the boy to braid their fingers before tightening it. “I'm sure he'll talk to you soon,” he said, giving him a kiss on his lips. Ivar smiled before stealing the last remaining popcorn in the envelope.

  


*

  


Obviously, the _famous_ speech couldn't delay for to long.

Aslaug had just signed the papers of the separation and Ragnar couldn't help but say that instead of feeling desolate or embittered for having seen his second marriage fail, he couldn't but breathe again the air of freedom and rediscovered the serenity of enter in his house, which it had been missing for a while.

He had never been happy with Aslaug, he had never really loved her, and she had never really loved him, that was for sure. Perhaps this had made the separation easier, or perhaps more difficult, this would have been determined by the time, from his point of view.

He would, gladly, take and accept what the future had in store for him, as he had always done, only that, this time, he hoped that at his side there was a certain christian of his knowledge. He would have believed it impossible only a year ago.

In the living room he found Ivar intent on playing or, perhaps, texting with Alfred, in front of the television turned on a detectives show that was not worthy of a look.

“I'm back” the son nodded slowly with his head, like a greeting, but without looking up from the screen of the phone. “Are you hungry? I don't put something under my teeth for hours. Hvitserk is out with his new girlfriend, while Sigurd is out with friends, so it's just the two of us. Do we order something? Pizza? Chinese?”

Ivar looked at him frowning, the phone finally resting on the table in front of him, near his feet. “Does Sigurd have any friends?” He asked rather, as if it were the most absurd thing he had ever heard.

His father rubbed his beard, holding back a laugh. “Yes, this thing has amazed me too, I can't deny it.”

Ivar looked perplexed for a few seconds, trying to make a local mind to possible former school friends or co-workers, but they all turned out to be highly improbable. Finally he grimaced and shrugged. “It's indifferent, however, order what you want.”

Ragnar went off to go to find the number of the Italian restaurant closest to home, took the phone and, while dialing the number, returned to look at his son. “Do you want to invite Alfred to dinner? He can also stay to sleep, if you want, I am an adult man and I don't get scandalized. Not after sharing the house with Ubbe and Bjorn, anyway.”

The boy shuddered at that thought, the two brothers never set limits when they decided to take a girl to sleep at home. “No, Athelstan had to take him at an art exhibition.”

Ragnar nodded, before moving away to order the usual. Then he reached him on the sofa, two bottles of beer already opened in his hand. He handed one to his son and then slightly lowered the volume of the TV, Ivar imagined what was about to happen.

“I saw your mother today,” he waited for him to say something, but when it passed a good minute made entirely of silence, he decided to continue “I asked for the separation and she signed the papers,” he explained.

Ivar seemed to soften the shot “I never believed in the break, if that's what you thought.”

“We didn't think so, no. Does this bother you?”

“Yes? How could it be different, according to you?” Ivar snapped, turning to face him. Ragnar stared at him, saying nothing to him, bringing the beer bottle to his lips. The boy sighed “Obviously I was prepared, we all were, but I'm still pissed off.”

“Your mother and I weren't happy for a while, you four were still children. I think it was the best thing, right? Especially for her, I was a bad husband and she was too patient. Don't you think she deserve a second chance?”

“Oh, of course. So you did it for her, not for yourself, didn't you?”

The name of Athelstan was in the air, Ragnar knew very well that his son wasn't stupid and that he had understood everything for a while, he had always been willing to bet that it wouldn't be easy to make him accept that situation. Fuck, he could bet money.

“Both your mother and I have been seeing people for months. Will you certainly remember Harbard, your doctor when you were child? Did you know that he returned in the city?”

Ivar glared at him. “Frankly, my mother's love interests don't interest me at the moment. We weren't talking about her.”

Ragnar put down his beer, suddenly serious. “No, you're right” words that almost didn't tell anyone, but for his son was always an exception. “Athelstan and I have been dating for a long time. We can say that we are together now, but you already know that. Although, I suppose, I should have told you before.”

“You should have, yeah.”

“Are you angry?”

“It annoys me that you haven't told me thar before, making me pass for a stupid, an idiot who doesn't realize that his father is slamming his current boyfriend's father!”

Ivar had never loved going around the question too much, his father wasn't surprised.

“I never thought you were stupid, in fact. I thought there was no need to say it plain and simple since we never bothered to hide. And, for the record, I'm not going to marry him, if that's what you're afraid of. I closed with weddings, they don't suit for me; You and Alfred aren't going to be half-brothers.”

“That was not my problem!” He said offended, and even disgusted at the thought.

“I'm not going to ask your permission to see Athelstan, Ivar, I want it to be clear,” he specified, as serious as he had been a few times in his life, “but I don't want this to cause you problems. I can avoid letting him come here, as long as you live there too. Is that what you want?” He tried.

“No,” replied the other, already exhausted by the argument. “I don't know how to feel about it, but this is your home, I can't ask you not to bring him here. Or to see him. It's your life, you can do whatever you want.”

Ragnar knew that this was the blessing he was waiting for, so he smiled. “Will you make a sacrifice for me, and will you endure Athelstan?”

“I already do it for Alfred” he commented, shrugging his shoulders and catching up on his mobile phone: discussion was over. “Even though nothing has changed in these months, I still don't like Athelstan.”

“Well, I don't like your boyfriend either, for that matter.”

“Liar.”

Ragnar laughed, threw himself back on the couch and stretched his feet on the table in front of them, too. He picked up the beer and relaxed in front of the TV, waiting for the bellboy to deliver their dinner.

  


*

  


Athelstan slept soundly, breathing lightly against Ragnar's bare chest, which, on the contrary, hadn't closed his eyes for hours. He had watched him for a while, helped by the light of the moon, and the street lamps, which came in through the open window, while he held him tightly in his arms. It was relaxing to watch him, and it had helped him to name the feelings he felt for that man so ordinary, so kind, so enthusiastic, so intelligent, so cultured, so... _him._

“Athelstan?” He tried to call him, his voice low; it seemed a crime to wake him up, in spite of everything. “Athelstan!”

“Mmh,” the other murmured, his lips pressed against his skin, his eyes still closed.

“Are you awake?” Silly question.

“I'm sleeping, Ragnar” even more silly answer.

“I was thinking of something.”

Athelstan sighed, nodded to make him understand that he was awake but didn't dare to open his eyes.

“I love you, Athelstan.”

He almost had a heart attack; he jumped up and just lifted his torso so that he could look at him in shock. He rubbed a hand over his own face, first, to make sure he was really awake.

“Are you serious?” Ragnar chuckled, letting himself kiss several times, fast, on his lips “Oh, God!”

“Don't name the name of God in vain, there is a time and place for this and, even if the place is ideal – as you have shown it several times – it doesn't seem to me the right time.”

“Idiot!” He joked, throwing a light slap behind his head, before collapsing back into the covers. “I think I love you too,” he whispered in the dark, a little later. “I mean, I've never felt anything like this with anyone else, nothing so strong, nothing so powerful, and overwhelming, nothing so tiring and satisfying. I have never been in love before, Ragnar Lothbrok, you are the first to succeed in this undertaking.”

Ragnar smiled smugly at hearing certain words, yet it wasn't his style to respond to sweetness with the same honey, so he decided not to add anything else, and Athelstan was okay with that, he had learned to know him, now, and didn't expect anything different.

“You never been in love, you say, not even with Judith?”

“I care about her, I've always have, but I don't think I've ever been in love with her. Rather, I think I was attracted to the transgression that a relationship with her, a married, faithful, religious woman would have entailed. I was excited about becoming a father, but when she told me she was staying with Aethelwulf, I didn't feel sad, on the contrary. We both knew it was right,” he explained, his mind turned to the past.

“Aethelwulf must not have taken it so politically, however, the news of her pregnancy and your paternity.”

Athelstan laughed “No, I wouldn't say so. He wanted to leave her at the beginning, but his father, Ecbert, was a close friend of mine and was very attached to Judith, so he convinced him to rethink and forgive her.”

Ragnar nodded, as if to tell him that he didn't really care about Aethelwulf, or Judith. “And so ... you were attracted to the transgression, eh ?!”

The other sighed amused “I shouldn't have said that!”

“No, you shouldn'!” The man exclaimed, approaching him and starting to wet his neck with his lips. Athelstan, however, was in the mood for talk and confession at the moment.

“Tell me about you, rather. You always told me you never loved Aslaug, did you ever fall in love before?”

Ragnar stopped at once, reluctantly. “Do you really want to talk about it now? Wouldn't you rather do anything else?” Athelstan just chuckled and bit his lip, however tempted he shook his head: he wanted to know his story. The other sighed defeated. “Of course I've been in love and, I'll be honest with you, that feeling has never really turned off.”

Athelstan didn't answer, but looked at him intently; Ragnar received the message: he wasn't annoyed, rather admired and moved.

“I never really told you about Lagertha, the mother of Bjorn and Gyda, because it's a subject... delicate, let's say that. She was what the saccharine people define the first and great love. We got married soon, both young, she was already pregnant of Bjorn but we didn't know yet. There isn't much to say, despite everything we are still very close. I messed it up after about 10 years, when I met Aslaug. I'd love to let you know her, anyway, I think you two could get along.”

Athelstan smiled sweetly at him “I would be happy.”

“But now, enough with this chatter please” he entreated theatrically, gesturing with his hands. “Let's talk about your passion for transgression, I'm pretty curious about the subject!”

The other laughed, still, tickled by the man's beard against his bare skin, before giving himself up to him for the second time that night.

  


*

  


In spite of his sons had said to him, in their own way, thas was okay for them, if Athelstan sleep in their home (not that he needed it), there passed a couple of months before the man consented to spend the night with him, this always out of respect for Ivar and the others.

Ragnar had asked – or it would be better to say _forced_ them to leave them in peace, at least for that first time, inviting them to be hosted by their mother, by some friend, by some of the brothers or by their flames (the important thing was that they weren't around).

He had prepared a perfect dinner to Athelstan, then they had drunk wine in front of the TV and then - there was no need to add anything, really.

The next morning he found himself alone, in bed, once awake, and looked around perplexed. Then he noticed the shirt on the ground that the man wore the night before, feeling almost simultaneously the noise coming from the kitchen and this was enough to calm him, yawn again slightly sleepy, and find the desire to get up. He put on his pajama pants and walked to the other in the kitchen.

He found him at the stove, he was wearing only the jeans from the night before and had long hair gathered in a rather untidy tail, bare feet. He stood looking at him ecstatically, his back against the wall; Athelstan juggled admirably, all concentrated in the preparation of scrambled eggs and bacon.

“What are you doing?” He asked suddenly, catching him by surprise, not resisting anymore.

Athelstan turned to look at him, the shadow of an expression of terror still on his face: he hadn't really heard it coming.

“Good morning” he began, recovering, and giving him a smile to which Ragnar immediately replied “well, I had thought to bring you breakfast in bed to thank you for the excellent dinner of last night.”

“And for the _after_ dinner?”

Athelstan rolled his eyes “I don't need to prepare your breakfast for that.”

Ragnar chuckled, reaching behind him and taking his hips. He nearly touched his neck with his lips, breathing on it. Athelstan closed his eyes lightly, completely bewitched; he felt himself caressing the skin and then hugging slowly, the hands of the other against his stomach. Then the kisses began on the neck, followed by bites and the indistinguishable touch of a hickey.

“Ragnar –” he began, trying as he could to appear firm. He failed miserably “I'l risk of burning breakfast.”

“You would burn it anyway,” said the other, “you're not a great chef, don't be offended.”

“No?!” He was offended, raising an eyebrow ironically.

“No, really. You have other qualities though, I don't know if anyone have ever told you.”

Athelstan shook his head, compliant. “They often tell me that, yes.”

He turned just in time to accept Ragnar's lips on his, in what turned out to be a fierce and ravenous kiss. He found himself sitting on the kitchen counter, took his face in his hands and let himself be caressed by the fingers of the man who had begun to walk across his back uncovered.

It was by chance that he found himself opening his eyes, at least for a second, just enough to get himself together. “Ragnar –” he tried to call him, but the other didn't want to know and continued to plunge back on his lips, although he pulled him back. “Ragnar, we are observed” he tried then.

Ragnar gave up his lips, throwing himself back on his neck. “We have already talked about it: I am sure your Lord will have something else to think about at the moment.”

“No, that's not what I meant,” he sighed. “Turn around.”

Ragnar stared at him, barely closing his eyes, not understanding where he wanted to go. At the end he just turned his head behind him, uncovering Alfred, busy looking at a small crack in the nearest wall, and Ivar, his eyes on his father and his mouth wide open, in complete shock.

“Guys!” He greeted them, letting go of Athelstan and trying to behave. Ivar was more and more upset.

“Father, p-l-e-a-s-e.” He syllabied, tight-lipped. Alfred tried not to laugh at his expression, however embarrassed for having caught them in the act.

“What is it?” Ragnar asked in response, playing the part of the saint.

“I have no words,” said the son, his eyes to the sky, before turning their backs on them, taking Alfred by the hand, and dragging him upstairs. Both Ragnar and Athelstan could hear it as he continued to grumble about things like: “Two adult men. In full day. Like two teenagers. In the kitchen! _I'm done_.”

No one dared to return to the subject in the future, but everyone began to announce themselves loudly, once they returned home: the prudence was never too much, with those two in the nearby.

**Author's Note:**

> First story in the fandom, written in only five days. I've never been so fast, I swear. Btw, I'm italian so there could be some error in the text. I'm sorry about that.


End file.
